“Oh.” Surprise gave way to annoyance. “You’re serious.”
Leaning his temple against the door’s edge, he said, “I wish I wasn’t.”
Another car slinked past on whisper treads. Her annoyance grew into the first stirrings of anger. Fighting to keep her voice level, she said, “I came all the way out here at your insistence.”
“Believe me,” he began, “I am very aware of that. I—”
She held up a hand to silence him. “I’m not trying to be rude, but there’s no way I’m walking all the way back to the T without at least using the bathroom, so I’m going to need you to open the door and let me in.”
To her surprise, he pulled the door open at once, the movement like a reflex. Like she’d tapped his tendon with a percussion hammer and he’d wrenched awake in reply. Darkness spilled out from the foyer. Colton clung to the frame, his knuckles white and his glower accusatory—as though she’d shoved the door open herself.
“Okay.” Her impertinence deflated like a balloon. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
He stayed alarmingly silent in response. Uncertain, she tiptoed across the threshold, giving him as wide a berth as she could manage. She didn’t make it more than a half step before drawing up short. The spacious hall was dimly lit, white walls dancing in the glow of a dozen flickering candles that slowly melted atop the hall tree bench.
It was lovely. It was exquisite. It was, she noted in fast-blossoming horror, distressingly romantic. The door clicked shut, and she rounded on Colton to find him a few feet in front of her, long fingers laced over the crown of his head. Lit from beneath, his features were stark and suffering as a saint’s.
She flung an open hand at the provisional altar. “What is this?”
“A long story,” he said darkly.
“Are you—” She faltered, frowning at the snapping flames. “Is this some sort of gesture?”
The look Colton gave her was deeply afflicted. “What kind of gesture?”
“You know,” she said. “Agesture.”
The whites of his eyes expanded, and he steepled his fingers in front of his lips, clinging to patience. “I’m not coming on to you, Wednesday.”
His response delivered a devastating blow. Mortified, she kicked herself for bringing it up at all. She shouldn’t have said anything. She should have ignored the candles. Better yet, she should have stayed on campus, where it was warm and well lit and there was a notable lack of Colton Price.
Feigning nonchalance, she asked, “Are you summoning a demon?”
An edge crept into his voice. “No.”
“Holding a séance?”
“No,” he said again.
“Do you do all your studying in the dark?”
“Jesus.” His eyes were a shade too black, his features chiseled a touch too sharp. Gilded in the ecclesiastic flicker of the foyer, he looked almost inhuman. “If I say yes, will you let this go?”
“Sure,” she said, aware that she was staring. “I’ll let it go.”
“Fantastic.” He set off, beckoning for her to follow. “Let’s get to work. I saw your calc notes out this morning in the café. I figured we’d start there.”
***
Colton turned out to be as formidable a tutor as he was a teaching assistant. His notes were a study in diligence. Every subject was meticulously labeled, the pages pristinely bulleted, each notebook alphabetized and color-coded to the point of obsession. Each night they staked out a workplace and studied deep into the night, combing through his stenographer-worthy binders until she’d managed to flood the sizable gaps in her notebooks with everything in his.
Night by night, the lessons began to click into place. Half-finished thoughts became concrete concepts. Broken formulas became solvable equations. Misspelled words became legible Latin. Outside the broad bay window of the Price sitting room, the world changed. The leaves on the old maples turned brittle, darkening to the color of blood. The air caught a chill it couldn’t shake, whittling the wind into an arrow, sharp enough to set the glass to rattling in its panes.
The lights stayed on after that first night. Colton kept Delaney corralled in the kitchen and the living room, never venturing any deeper into the house. In the busy warren of colonial-era corridors, every last door stayed firmly shut. No one came. No one went. There was no sign that anyone else lived there at all, save for a little boy’s navy-blue jacket that hung from a hook on the hall tree.
“Do you have a younger brother?” she’d asked one night as they sat shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen island and pored through his Latin notes.
“No,” he’d said, and passed her a sheet of conjugations. He hadn’t elaborated, and she’d been too caught off guard by the ice in his voice to press him for more.
